Mute
by atreriaestus
Summary: Demyx/?. This is Demyx. The water could be acid, for all he cares, he would drink it just the same: without complaint. ::Mature.::
1. The Mirror Is Broken

Initially a claim on a LiveJournal Community. But I really like this set. So I decided to submit them. All Demyx, so there's 9 bits of gayness and 1 bit of straightness. All around 200 words. A bit of poetic puffery.

**Square-Enix/Disney and Tetsuya Nomura. **

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01. The Mirror is Broken. (Saix) 

He never found things in eyes. Certainly not the eyes that clack-clacked from the marble to the marbles, spilling and blending and bleeding into the white. All he ever saw was the reflection of himself, staring back, blank and unabashed.

They must not have souls, these witless soldiers blanketed in obscurity.

They must not have had souls.

And slowly, gently, all the strings pulled together until he had a satellite hooked on his fingertips, the yellow-heartless-yellow-canary-lovebird-yellow searing into him and soaking into the potholes of his soul.

He didn't see himself in that luminosity. Instead he saw …

he saw perfection, of perhaps a mechanical sorts. So he made love to that contrivance, used him to seep into the darkest depths of hell.

But all the mirrors had been broken, and it was too late to catch the falling shards that splattered on the alabaster like waves crashing between rocks.

And Demyx was such the superstitious type.

Maybe he'd just have to make a lover of Saix yet, and hope the reflections would fix themselves.


	2. House At Night

A bit of thinking in this one. Hope it doesn't hurt.

**Square-Enix/Disney, Tetsuya Nomura.**

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02. House At Night. (Cloud)

It creaked.

The mattress-cables of his essence, gears turning where there should be a heart. The springbok doors of his chest fluttering open, two wingless doves crashing and burning into the earth, because supposedly all the forest fires start with their blood, black and sinewy as ink.

And the color black's been born in taint. That's how they got ravens, you know. Crows are a different matter, a different breed all together. They come from tears instead.

It creaks.

Finally the naked trees are scraping at the windows, demanding attention, demanding entrance. They're denied, of course, spiked flaxen and flat flaxen and so much tanned muscle too ignorant in the musty old house and its ransoms.

She'd be so mad she'd start creaking, if she knew what was going on.

Somehow, Demyx thinks she knows what's going on. It's in the way she looks at him, like he's the ghoul in that haunted home.

Well … no. This house is not a home.

But it creaks like one: creaks like people are still walking around upstairs, creaks over the moans, creaks over the rapping on the window, creaks like his dead grandmother's rocking chair did when she would knit upon the hours.

And his voice creaks his obvious gratitude of every thrust, and he can't help but think as he orgasms that the phrase "Cloud Nine" should be more ironic than it really is, and how 'Cloud' can be rearranged to 'Could'.

"Could" he creak, though?


	3. Pidgeon's Wings

More thinking. A lot of weirdness. As typical.

**Square-Enix/Disney, Tetsuya Nomura.**

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03. Pigeons' Wings. (Xemnas)

Oh, he's dirty. He's so filthy, so up to the shoulders in grime that nothingness--no, that darkness looks like sanitizer drying on a surgeon's table.

Demyx will come in with the tools. Not the doctor's, but the janitor's, in his uniform and giving praise to the people who really need it. He doesn't need to smile to be happy, and he doesn't need to be happy to smile.

So he'll clean it. He'll clean it because it needs to be cleaned; he'll clean it because the dirt's before him for the wiping.

Poor, poor Superior, poor Superior with the Inferiority Complex. He'd like to rape, but he can't put the 'are' in it. So he's just left with the 'p'.

'Pathetic'? 'Persecuted'? 'Primal'?

Sure, why not. Demyx can take that pathetic primal lust and persecute it for his every will, even though the man above him thinks he's the one doing all the cleaning.

Xemnas could never be a janitor. He doesn't know how to take orders well enough, much less give them.

And he smiles as the olive-skinned god sleeps with his back to him; he can't help but laugh, heavy and full, at the scars on his shoulder blades, scars from a past life where there was no orange in his eyes and he was being punished for being dirty instead of just wiped clean.

The scars look like wings.

But Xemnas is no dove. He'd like to be. He's just an imitation, though, so synthetic that even his voice sounds of time recorded over a time or two.

He's no dove.

He's only a pigeon.


	4. Covered Up

Actually the last one I wrote. I have a tendency to go horribly out of order. Nonetheless, I like the connections between these two.

**Square-Enix/Disney, Tetsuya Nomura.**

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04. covered up (Sora)

These two are mockingbirds, they say.

They copy each other without really meaning to; they watch movements and imitate fake smiles, all the faker when aimed at each other.

They've both been through so much pain they shouldn't be allowed to gleam like that, but they do. … They really do. And they get a little better at it each time the darkness touches them, like that black handprint could never stand out against those tombstone-white teeth. This is how they're the same: all feathers and beaks and pretty songs.

The handprint sinks into their skin and instead becomes imbedded in their soul, showing in blue eyes and calloused hands as they strum strings. And this is how they're different: different strings to pluck and different songs to sing.

Demyx plays a nocturne. Sora plays a fight theme.

Demyx listens to stories. Sora listens to hearts.

Demyx cries alone with his instrument in his lap. Sora cries on his knees in front of his best friend.

But they both cover up their sorrows and pretend things don't matter, those heavy and seemingly important things like heaving hearts and heaving chests and the heaving cries of the fallen as a world tilts on the wrong axis and gets swallowed in darkness.

It's the first time anyone sees Demyx cry. And Sora swears he'll never show anyone his tears again.

Because it hurts too much to watch someone else fall apart.


	5. Prometheus

In Greek Mythology, Prometheus is a Titan known for his wily intelligence, who stole fire from Zeus and gave it to mortals for their use. As punishment, Zeus chains him to the side of a mountain where, every day, his liver is devoured by an eagle. He is credited with (or blamed for) playing a pivotal role in the rise of mankind.

Take this, and your general knowledge of the childhood of Christianity, and you get this extremely warped drabble on the Organization XIII politics that simply ... revolve around Demyx.

This is, undoubtedly, my favorite of this set ...

**Square-Enix/Disney, Tetsuya Nomura.**

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05. Prometheus (Roxas)

The boy's so abused.

Well, maybe he really can't call it abuse if he brings it upon himself. Like all the bad domestic violence cases, there's the assailant's side of the story.

"Maybe she screamed."

--…Maybe Roxas screams as the man with the silver hair punishes him over and over.

And he's chained up there on the castle walls, chained in the glow of red and only sizzles but never falters as the rain falls, as though trying to offer some of the boy comfort in hiding his tears and washing away his blood.

He looked so hurt up there, all by himself. But Demyx has got scars under his gloves from the first time he saw Christ and tried to save him from crucifixion.

But those simmering blue eyes above watch as Cain--with his hair as red as the water-turned-wine--cuts down and Abel after Abel after Abel in their little beautiful congregation of the faithful, brings sin unto them and becomes the progenitor of evil.

He'll be a martyr for the man who gave fire--who gave Cain to the innocents and was forced to relinquish despondency for misery instead.

He'll be an eagle, come to pick clean the wounds and steal meaningless kisses from the poor, wounded boy, hoping maybe it'll offer some comfort.

He'll be on the only one the clever little titan never deceives.


	6. Hitchhiker

Betcha thought I wasn't finishing these, huh?

**Disney/Enix/Nomura.**

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06. Hitchhiker (Axel)

This new one smells like acid. He can count them all down (how they hurt, how they live, how they laugh) from only meeting them once, as though looking straight through deadened vines to the photosynthesis beneath.

But this new one, this last one he meets, he can't make him out until he smells strychnine and steps backwards, only spreading the grin across his face.

He is the first neophyte (Number VII was instantly accepted in the ranks). He is the first one to bring question into rule and rule under question.

Demyx is fascinated with him, as though he were a dangling piece of glass in a brilliant sunlight, angles casting rainbows and glitter in every direction.

It reflects in his eyes, this insatiable hunger for the knowledge of how he works. _God Almighty, how does he __work__?_

But he can't ask. He knows magicians never reveal their tricks, knows its a better idea to just sit and watch as his world drives by, the way you feel when it seems like the car's not moving but the world is.

He thinks he _would _spare Axel a second glance, with a sign around his neck and a bag over his shoulder (especially if he had on that lop-sided grin in place on his clown's mask).

But that's really all he is: a clown. A jester. (A _gesture_.)

The world keeps on moving. And Axel's still only that traveler he looked at twice.


	7. Belle Époque

Some straight Dem, for you yaoi-haters. Very hastily written. This one didn't _quite_ have the same amount of emotion put into it as the others, but I'm satisfied nonetheless (more satisfied than the next one, actually).

I realize the connection to the prompt could be a bit confusing. The Golden Era brought upon the rise of Art Nouveau and shorter, more generalized songs. Perhaps that will help.

One can also consider this piece a cousin to "Graffiti". -Grin.-

**Square-Enix/Disney, Tetsuya Nomura.**

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07. Belle Époque/The Golden Era (Naminé)

She's drawing something else when she looks at him. The usually colorful portraits of people she cares about take warped and pained length, growing darker and spreading across the page to a painful pointillism. She finds her hand shaking from the force of it all, black and gray crayons broken and sprinkling the table like ash.

When she hesitates showing him, he looks at her with a smile of understanding. He's an artist, too, after all, and would never want to be forced to play a song for a Duke he never knew.

But she shows him anyway, bravely, and the cesspools in the depths of his eyes churn suspiciously, as though the lines and curves may leap off of the page and try to devour him whole. --Really, that may be a reprieve, if there is indeed a "whole" to eat.

It's like he's being faced with his own inner demons on this piece of paper: if only for a moment.

He rips his eyes from it, smiles at the small girl and wittily calls it: "Nouveau a la Naminé." She giggles, because she knows that's the reaction he wants, that it's the reaction that will return the current of air to their presences again.

Still, the picture haunts his mind as he plays with the one, two, three, four, nine dials of adjustment on his instrument. He thinks of the lines crawling over her body, the black sinking into her dress and staining her darker than blood.

There's a black handprint on her shoulder, and it's holding her tight enough to crush her collarbone.

And slithers over the arch and down to where her heart might be, fondling the soft breast.

He wakes with his sitar in his lap, and realizes why the art bothers him:

--that's his black hand creeping over her skin;  
--those're his black lips puckering against the pulse of her neck;  
--that spider used to rest on his knuckles, trembling and snarling, depending on each fret.

His songs get shorter.


	8. Evil Snake

So. I lied. There are **8** bits of gayness and **2** bits of straightness. Hey, if he's only eighty percent gay, I think he's doin' all right, you?

Still, not one of my favorites. As good as I am at captivating Larxene's personality, I just ... did not succeed here. And it's strange, because this was a perfect prompt for her.

**Square-Enix/Disney, Tetsuya Nomura.**

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08. Evil Snake. (Larxene)

She's vile. She's evil, vile, evil, evil, vile, live, … alive.

But she's so cunning, she's so evil, she's so alive. And he knows she's alive, because she can break him in two and put him back together again by just looking at him. She looks at him just so: like she'll take from him more than he has to give, but the promises in those hues tell him he really wants it, too; wants it more than he can say.

She's on her belly, but not in the grass (she's not a snake that conceals herself, after all)--she's on her belly because she's on top of him, slithering across his skin more than riding him like a normal woman.

And when she bites him in thirst, he swears he feels the pinpricks of fangs, would tell even a God that he felt his veins pulse and sear with the heat of her venom. And all he does to save his soul from the toxin is cry out, "Mercy, mercy on high!" and let his eyes roll in the back of his head in submission to her scaly wiles.

Her stomach is warm and full as she devours her little mouse whole, swallows him up just to spit him back out and save him for another day, when her other meals aren't quite as filling and she's in no mood to hunt.

Because Demyx is easy prey. Because Demyx'll moan just right for her every time.

And because the moment Demyx even tries to tell someone, all she has to do is flick her tongue and sense his scorching desire.


End file.
